The Ancients
by EmergentWriter
Summary: Long before Tris Prior, Tobias Eaton, and the Revealing, there were the Ancients. They were the ones who adopted new identities and willingly forgot their old lives. They were the ones who were separated from the outside world and started the faction system. And the first of them was Edith Prior. Sounds interesting? Check out the application form inside. SYOC!
1. Chapter 1

If you haven't read Insurgent, READ NO FURTHER UNLESS YOU WANT EVERYTHING REVEALED. Right. Now that that's out of the way, welcome! This is my first SYOC, and it's a bit different, seeing as it doesn't revolve around an initiation. No, it's VERY different. Here's the main plot. . .

Long before Tris Prior and Tobias Eaton and what would become known as the Virtues Uprising, there were the Ancients. They were the first to willingly give up their identities and start fresh in a specially built compound with new names, new memories, and no recollection of their former lives in our corrupted world. They were to be the ones to start the infamous faction system, and set out on the journey to renewing faith in the goodness of mankind.

In other words, they are the first people who created Tris's world, and among them is Tris's ancestor, Edith Prior. If you don't get it, read the last chapter of Insurgent again. But enough of that. Here's the form, send it in via either review or PM, doesn't really matter to me :)

**Application form**

Former name;

New name;

Age (any age, not just 16 like in initiation);

Faction;

Gender;

Appearance (build, hair, eyes, that stuff);

Personality (pros AND cons);

Background (former job, reason for leaving, past experiences);

Family;

Likes and dislikes;

Romance (if so, what kind of person?);

**Here's an example with my OC;**

Former name; Lizbeth Kingsly

New name; Alta Brighton

Age; 22

Faction; Dauntless

Gender; Female

Appearance; Shoulder-length shiny raven-black hair streaked with navy blue, dark blue eyes. Tall and slender, and has fairly pale skin. Has many long, white scars on her back from her father. Gets a small tattoo of a sun on her left shoulder.

Personality; Alta is that girl that everyone knows, but is not quite sure what to make of. She is fiercely determined, and quietly brave, not power-hungry. Although she is always ready to help, her short temper and impulsiveness can get the better of her. Although she may seem harsh and abrupt, she is actually very kind, although she has a very dry and sarcastic sense of humour.

Background; Alta grew up with her father and three younger sisters, as her mother left them when she was 12. They lived in the poorer part of town, and her father had an addiction and was abusive, so Alta was the main breadwinner of the family. She was the protective older sister who worked in a cafe downtown as a waitress, and her family just squeaked by. When the chance to join the Divergent experiment came around, Alta took it at age 19, because the scientists there promised to sustain her family.

Family; Her father, Jacob Kingsly, age 46, and her three sisters Joy, Erin, and Rebecca (Becky), ages 9, 11, and 14. Her mother was Laura Brighton.

Likes and dislikes; Alta likes adventure and simple things. She's not materialistic but is able to enjoy material comfort. She strongly dislikes lying, hesitation, and being alone.

Romance; Yes, but you'll have to wait and see! :D

**Expectations**

On my honour as a Fanfiction author, I solemnly swear to update as soon as I can, never abandon this story, reply to all reviews, and notify owners of characters in times of extreme plot twists, which there may or may not be.

If I do that, you guys just _please_ be polite. I don't care if you flame me, just do it reasonably nicely. It's not much to ask.

And so we go!IF I have forgotten anything crucial, please tell me in a review or PM. I'd love to get this right on the first try! I will accept as many characters as there are submitted so no one is left out :)

One more thing; there's an author out there going around by the penname of DefyTheImpossible who's leaving nasty reviews on the Divergent community. The reviews are mainly left on SYOCs and songfics, and I've already received one for my oher story, A Thousand Years. She's threatening that they're illegal and if I don't take down the stories, she'll report me, so if things go nuts blame her, because I'm not taking down any of my stories.


	2. Lizbeth

**Hello, my lovely Divergentees! I am back, after having been absorbed into the fascinating world of Pokémon and the wonderful thing that is FerrisWheelShipping! Here is the long-awaited list of OCs I will be using, and the first chapter!**

**Toby and Ryuu; SilverEyeShinobi**

**Sydney Reeves; independentwriter-137**

**Helen Finch; Future Fantasy Writer**

**Elle Anders; MockingjayFlying**

**Maelynn Fent; freakazoid123**

**Emilee Nicholee; XxxCloudyxxX**

**Ashletta Everdeen; Ashletta Everdeen**

**Damien; DauntlessFire**

**Alexia Truth; nochance**

**And my characters, one of which you've already met, Alta Brighton, who is also known as Lizbeth Kingsly. I'm all for new characters, as well, so out with them! Now, on with the story!**

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**Lizbeth**

I'm running again.

It's usually not a surprise to find a young woman sprinting down a track in a park, short black hair flapping in the chilly breeze, beige knitted scarf idly streaming behind. But then again, usually they aren't running for their lives in the middle of the night, with an angry man behind them. And usually the angry man isn't the woman's father.

It's been two weeks since this last happened. I crept home like usual, after another late night working my shift at another little diner paying minimum wage. I put on my worn coat, wrapped the scarf that my mother made me around my neck, and shoved my pay in my pocket. Then I slipped home, through the alleys that line my city, towards the rundown apartment I call home.

I cautiously halted in the hall outside our suite, the worn red carpet muffling my steps as I stopped to see if the light was still on. It was off. Good. I fished my key out of my backpack, and winced as it jingled in the late night air. I paused to check if anyone had noticed, but no one came barging out of their rooms, asking me what I was doing making such a ruckus at eleven at night. So I slipped the key into the rusty lock, and slowly winched the door open.

The first thing my eyes fall upon as I scan the musty living room is the threadbare sofa. Or rather, the people on the sofa. My three little sisters, Joy, Erin, and Becky lie curled up together in a small clump, the rise and fall of their chests indicating that they're asleep. I softly ruffle each one's brown hair as I pass, making sure my footsteps are still silent.

Creeping into the kitchen, I sigh. Empty beer cans litter the counters, which look like they haven't been washed in ages, and a thin trickle of water drips from the leaking tap of the sink. At this point, I honestly can't be bothered to get a plumber in to fix it. Not like we have the money, anyways. Ever since mom left, things have been going downhill.

Dad lost his job at the local market and fell into depression, and the only sensible thing we could get out of him for months was her name. Laura. After he recovered, he took to beating me, usually with his beer bottles, but sometimes with my mother's wedding ring, carving lines deep into my back, where no one will see them. The last time he beat me was last Monday. I'm hoping tonight won't repeat the incident.

I reach into the pantry and grab the first thing I see to satisfy my stomach; a nearly empty box of Cheerios. Not even bothering to get a bowl (they're probably all dirty anyways), I reach a hand into the cardboard and munch on the cereal as my dinner. Delicious.

As I eat, I pull the form that came in the mail yesterday towards me. I didn't take a good look at it, but now that my father's asleep, I have all the time I want. When he's drunk, he's out for good until at least the next day. And he's usually drunk. I swallow my mouthful of wheat dust and read it properly.

_To a Ms. Lizbeth Kingsly,_

_We at the Divergent Committee have come to hear of your recent financial plight, and we believe that we have a solution. We are in desperate need of volunteers for what we are to call The Divergent Project; a project that we hope will combat the rising amounts of war, injustice, and poverty worldwide._

_We are creating a facility closed off from the outside world, and we need the aforementioned volunteers to inhabit it and live in the enclosure for a long period. However, there is one catch; the volunteers must be willing to forget everything about themselves. This includes their name, backgrounds, family, and in essence who they are. _

_In return, we will provide for your family or those you have left behind, and ensure that they will come to no harm. If you would like to participate, please fill out the attached form and mail it to the enclosed address._

_Most sincerely, Ms. Yolanda Smith_

Whatever weariness I had earlier in the night is now gone. A chance to provide for me family, a chance to save them from this apartment that my meager income can barely provide. . . A chance to forget my father and my mother's abandonment. . .

Without further hesitation, I bend over the crisp, white paper, and start writing on it with a nearly-used-up blue pen.

When I am finished, I neatly fold the paper and slip it into an envelope, licking the yellow adhesive to seal it. The glue burns and sticks to my tongue, making it feel like it is on fire. Fire. Strong and bright, what I wish to be someday.

I stick a stamp on the envelope and neatly write the address, kiss my sisters goodbye for the moment, and slip out the door again.

Now that I look back on it, I probably should have been more careful. Who doesn't notice a tall, slim woman sneaking out of a derelict apartment at night? And when the girl has piercing blue eyes and moon-pale skin, it makes them all the more obvious.

But it's too late to turn back now, so I sneak down an alley, skirting the puddles of light thrown by buildings, and sticking to the shadows. Once, I slip by two men, members of a gang, most likely, and I hear a snippet of their conversation.

"Where's the Hunter? Shouldn't he be back by now, crying over his mentor's dead body?"

"I don't know. He ditched us a while ago, right after the Assassin got shot. Stupid little ass. Called himself a Hawk, too. I say we off him as well."

This was followed by guffaws and laughter, and I decided I didn't want to hear the rest of that conversation. Sprinting now, I raced towards a school, the nearest place a mailbox might be. And that's when I saw him.

I was wrong. He wasn't asleep. He came after me, following me as surely as a tracking dog. I curse under my breath. Stupid, stupid. I start to run.

"Lizbeth? I told you not to go out at night!"

"I was. . . Getting your beer!" I improvise as I run down the track. Faster, faster! More speed, I need more.

"Little liar," he says spitefully. "I oughtta send you off like your mother. It's your fault your mother left, you know. She hated you. Hated the lotta you little bitches."

I'm trying to ignore him, but it's kind of hard. He's blaming me for my own mother leaving. I do the only thing I can. Ignoring my hitching breath and pounding heart, I shove the envelope down my shirt and run, as he follows.

One woman, running down an empty track at night, with her alcoholic father threatening her and her siblings. One woman whose mother left her when she was twelve, and left her to bring up her family and keep them alive. One woman who is currently praying that this time, her father won't catch her.

Now you see why I want to forget.

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And so we go! Are you liking Lizbeth so far? More characters will be up next chapter, so please read and review :) I use flames to toast my marshmallows by my campfire at night.


	3. Flynn

**I am so sorry. In fact, there are no words in my spectacularly expanded vocabulary to express how sorry I am to all of you, any of you still reading this worthless piece of Erudite manure. Sorry for not updating. Sorry for not responding to reviews like I promised to. Sorry for not answering PMs. But I have good news. I got a laptop. I can now update. And I AM NOT giving up on this story.**

**REPEAT. I AM NOT. GIVING UP. ON THIS STORY.**

**Disclaimer; Veronica Roth would update. Enough said. I am SO sorry.**

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There is something red running down my hand. It's dripping from my fingers, snaking its way in rivulets across my clenched fist, and slowly trickling towards the hem of my black leather jacket. And I know perfectly well what it is.

Blood. Drying in crackling sheets on my skin, oozing stickily and clotting in my nailbeds. And it's not mine. It never is.

I should be used to this by now. The way this hellhole works. Get the assignment. Follow the target. And when they're alone and vulnerable, kill the target, and leave nothing behind. But it's never that easy.

I've been a member of the Hawks since I was thirteen. I'm twenty-four now. Eleven years. Eleven years, they've had, to twist me and mold me into their perfect killer. Twisted me and branded me, a tattoo on my right arm, dark against the lighter skin. Eleven years to change me into a monster. And they've come close. Very close.

I am the Hunter. I am what the Chicago Hawks call the ideal assassin, the most efficient and ruthless machine there is. But machines aren't supposed to have hearts. And that is what will do me in, in the end.

Damian. Not a day goes by that I don't see his body in my mind's eye, limp and painted in beautifully vicious crimson. He was my mentor, my teacher, almost my brother. The only friend I had when everything else I had possessed was lost, torn away from me. And they killed him.

The gunshot still rings in my ears, echoing, and the sharp whistle the bullet left as it raced to meet its goal is a sound I know will never leave me. His own brothers killed him, brothers in crime, but also in duty and ideals. Or so we thought. Or so I thought,

The Hawks shot him. His own gang. The Leader was the one to pull the trigger, his finger tight and unrelenting, his eyes firm and his jaw set. No mercy. That's what we were taught, in the beginning.

As the bullet raced forwards, the Hawks emerged from the shadows, as stealthy and as quiet as the predator they were named for, detaching themselves from the shadows and circling around the scene. And they were grinning. Smirking and stealing vaguely amused glances at each other, as if to say, "Look! The Assassin is being assassinated!"

I can still see the moment the light left his dark eyes, and hear his flimsy gasps for air, growing weaker and weaker as the life ebbed away from him. See the almost invisible relaxation in his well-built muscles as he finally found relief in dreadful oblivion.

And the bullet just sat there. Bloody and shining in the cold silver puddle of light thrown by the full moon overhead. Smiling and taunting, just as they were. "What will you do now, Flynn? Great Flynn Lloyd the Hawk?"

I couldn't leave. This was a test of my loyalty, to see how dedicated I truly was. The message was clear. Are you really one of us? Or are you a weakling, a coward, a sniveling little boy who will run back to his mother and hide?

I had to stay. First of all, this was how I got my money. Everything depended on this. . . occupation. I would be a cold, dead, thirteen-year-old body if not for these people. Second of all, they would kill me if I ran, put plain and simple. Without a second thought. Just like they killed Damian.

So I stayed. And now I am the Hunter, and I am the supposedly cold-hearted killing machine. God help me.

I carefully assume my mask of icy indifference, and let it settle onto my rough, stormy features. Just in case anyone is watching. Then I step forwards, throwing a long shadow onto the bloodstained concrete wall in front of me. This one put up a fight.

The orders were simple, for once. Uncomplicated. Follow and eliminate the target. Leave nothing, take nothing. I look down at the dead man's sandy blonde hair, streaked red with blood, and shrug unsympathetically. Screw that. I bend over to examine the contents of his wallet.

Usually, the targets are rich, either from illegal drug trafficking or mob connections. Underground, of course. As I open this one's brown leather wallet, I am mildly surprised, and more than a bit disappointed. There are only two blood-soaked twenty dollar bills, nestled together on a bed of loose change. Slim pickings.

I pocket the money, looking around furtively to see if anyone's noticed that I've disobeyed orders. Not that I really care. That idiot who calls himself Leader these days never checks for anything out of the ordinary. What a fool.

As I stand again, dropping the wallet, my eyes catch on a snippet of something startling white against a smoky grey background. An idea sparks in my mind, and I internally grin. **Could this be the gold at the end of the figurative rainbow? **

I retrieve the envelope from the man's obviously hand-tailored breast pocket and reach into my own pocket for the one remainder I have left of my past. My fingers brush against a cool, slick surface, and I allow my tired eyes to squeeze shut for a moment.

My switchblade. Probably the only thing my asshole of a dad ever gave me. "To defend yourself," he said. Two days later, he went off somewhere and never came back. A week after that, I heard a news report.

"The body of a Caucasian male found downtown late last Tuesday has been identified as a Mr Richard "Rich" Lloyd. It is believed that he died of a drug overdose, although experts are still investigating. Authorities refuse to disclose any more details."

That was when I joined the Hawks.

I pull out my knife, and flick the blade open with my thumb, remembering the feel of the smooth handle in my palm. Now, it's battered beyond recognition, and the only thing the dull blade is good for is opening letters.

A quick slash of steely grey, and the paper envelope is destroyed, fluttering to the ground like a dying butterfly. Shreds of white gently float after it, sprinkling the concrete and turning into a bloody paper mache.

I pull out the unwrinkled sheet of paper and begin to read. As I continue, a nervous feeling begins to build in my gut, and I clench a fist to contain my excitement.

_**To a Mr Robert Toledo,**_

_**We at the Divergent Committee have come to hear of your company's recent difficulties, and we believe that we have a solution. We are in desperate need of volunteers for what we are to call The Divergent Project; a project that we hope will combat the rising amounts of war, injustice, and poverty worldwide.**_

_**We are creating a facility closed off from the outside world, and we need the aforementioned volunteers to inhabit it and live in the enclosure for a long period of time. However, there is one catch; the volunteers must be willing to forget everything about themselves. This includes their name, background, family, and in essence, who they are.**_

_**In return, we will provide for your family and those you have left behind, and ensure that they will come to no harm. We will also confirm that your business continues to operate and gather profit. If you would like to participate, please fill out the attached form and mail it to the enclosed address.**_

_**Most sincerely, Ms Yolanda Smith**_

This could finally be it. A way out.

Without a second thought, I slip the missive into my jacket pocket along with the switchblade and head back to the base. After all, we wouldn't want to keep the Leader waiting, would we?

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**Once again, the most sincere of sorries from the most ashamed authoress ever. This was Flynn Lloyd, submitted by DauntlessFire. Next up will be the wonderful Ashletta Everdeen's character, whose name will remain a mystery until my next update, which will NOT take four months next time.**

**I give you all total permission to mentally kill me as many times as need be before you review. Feel free to yell because I know I deserve it :(**


	4. Olivia

**Heheheheheee! I have discovered a new way of uploading! MUCH faster updates from now on. I swear. **

**Apologies to Ashletta Everdeen, I'm still writing your chapter so I figured that I would throw this out there while I write. Katrina will be next :) Without further ado, this is Olivia Diesel, by nochance.**

**Disclaimer; Definitely. I totally have Veronica Roth in my basement, she writes for me -_- NOT.**

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"Olivia? Darling, what are you doing?"

My mother's soft voice still haunts me to this day. If it wasn't for my dad, none of this would have happened. I wouldn't be sitting here, chewing on the rubbery end of a new orange pencil.

I wouldn't be up here, locked in my room with the key around my neck. With a sheet of paper in front of me, ready to fill out, and a freshly sharpened pencil in my hand. And the lights out. And a flashlight in my mouth.

And lying that I didn't feel too good, and that I was going to go to sleep. I never used to lie. Ever. But the debts changed everything. Absolutely everything.

It happened a few months ago. I swear this wasn't what I was looking for. I thought it was an odd job, like old people hire you for. Doing the laundry, vaccuuming, running to the store for groceries. That kind of stuff.

I got a note from one of my friends at school, saying that some guy wanted me to run some errands for him, maybe do him a favour or two. He said he'd pay me. And so stupidly, like the naïve idiot I was, I went.

So when the guy told me to meet him at Slippery Jack's, the local liquor store in the mall, I wasn't too concerned. After all, it wasn't like he could try anything on me. There were people everywhere. The mall was bustling full, and I had brought my best friend Avery with me.

We sat on a bench, sipping our frappucinoes from Starbucks and chatting idly, like any tenth graders would do. Mocha for me, green tea for her. We watched the people go by, giggling about one woman's pink frilly hat, sending flirtatious looks to the hot guys that went by.

And then the guy showed up, at four o'clock on the dot, just like he said. He wasn't anything remarkable, and didn't look too strong. Avery flipped her red hair, and whispered in my ear that she could take him.  
He had short, dark brown hair and the hint of a mustache on his upper lip. He spoke quietly, and told me that he'd meet me later, at the corner of Chelsea and Longdale. When he leaned in to pass me a note, both Avery and I noticed something.

He smelled of weed.

And that's about the point when I realised what he wanted me to do. He wanted me to carry money and drugs back and forth from him and his clients. So I recoiled quickly, and said that no, thank you, I wasn't interested.

He just laughed, a bare chuckle, and pressed a one hundred dollar bill into my limp, sweaty palm. "Think about it," he said, and then disappeared into the noisy crowd, vanshing as though he'd never been there.

Avery had looked at me, her green eyes wide, and asked if I was going to take it. She said that she had heard that this kind of job pays well, and that I was clever enough not to get caught.

Avery was the only one who knew the full story. The part about my dad's debts and how SOMEONE needed to pay them off. Avery was also an orphan. So she didn't have anyone to answer to. Not like I did. "I'll be your backup," she had promised with a sly grin.

So I took the job. And that was probably the worst mistake of my entire life.

The first time, I was petrified. I waited at the assigned corner, shivering in my hoodie and shuffling my feet back and forth to keep warm. It was a cold, clear night, with no moon to see by. I guess, now that I look back on it, that's why he chose it.

When he showed up at ten (which was an hour past my curfew, and I had been forced to sneak out), he just shoved a strong-smelling package into my trembling hands and given me a name.

Then he was gone again. So I gave the package (surreptitiously, of course) to the boy at my school, he gave me the money, and I gave the money to the guy the next night.

When he paid me, I decided there and then that the job was mine. It paid well. Almost too well to be true. And I was confident enough that I wouldn't be caught. Why would I?

I had always been good. My parents had never had a reason to mistrust me, and I'd never crossed any of their lines before. The stereotypical good girl. It was too easy.

The next time, and the times after that, were easy. Same name, same amount, same package. Slip it into the locker, receive a little white envelope, give him the envelope, get money.

Use the money to pay off dad's debt, repeat the process. Three months in, and I was nearly done, and still scot-free. And then came the afternoon job. I met him under the streetlight at ten pm again, like usual. Only this time, there was a complication.

"I need you to meet me here at four tomorrow afternoon. There's been a... Disruption." And I agreed. After all, this was the last job. After this, the debt would be paid off completely, and my family could go back to normal.

Avery, of course, stuck by my side through the whole thing. When I told her about the afternoon job, her only comment was that she was coming with me. And that was that.

We walked home together, backpacks swinging precariously from one shoulder, coca-cola in hand. One bottle, two straws, like we always shared. The guy knew Avery well enough by now. She had come with me on a few of my runs. He trusted her.

It helped that she had bought a bit of weed off him herself, what with the little money she had.

Whatever. It was her business, not mine, even though I told her it was a bad idea.

He pulled the package out from under his jacket, because we WERE in broad daylight, in a tidy little row of townhouses. I reached out to take it... And that's when things went sour.

A jingling of keys and the clacking of high heels on cement should have been my first warning. The clattering of her multiple necklaces should have been the next. When I smelled her perfume, however, it was too late.

"Olivia? Darling, what are you doing?"

It was my mother. And although I'd lied plenty since this whole shazam started, the words just wouldn't come. "I... I.." Avery was my hero.

"I'll take that, sir," she said, snatching the fragrant parcel gingerly and shoving it into her cheap purple jeans pocket. And then she had marched off without another glance, shooting me a look that told me that I owed her. Bigtime.

That's when I decided that this had all gone too far. I couldn't take the lying, the scheming, the plotting, any of it for any longer. It had to stop.

After a long explanation, a lot of lying, and remarkably easily persuaded parents, I convinced them that this was Avery's fault, not mine. It killed me to condemn her. My best friend.

So here I am, bending over this white sheet of paper with neat black type, reading quickly as my eyes scan over the information. A new beginning, and a way to finish paying off that debt. Happily ever after for everyone.

The graphite in the pencil squeaks irritably as I begin to write, in my small, cramped print, my dark brown hair brushing the page. I push it behind my ear and huff, annoyed.  
Now, to start the application...

_Name; Olivia Diesel_

_New name; Alexia Truth..._

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**Review, review, review! :) And thanks again, everyone, for your support and constant reminders to get those chapters out there!**


	5. Ashletta

**So. This is the long-awaited chapter, and may I just say that, once again, I am so sorry for not having this done earlier. There was a slight miscommunication with the application form, and then some of me having difficulties squishing the pieces together. BUT that doesn't matter, because the chapter is up. Right?**

**Once again, this is Ashletta Everdeen by; Ashletta Everdeen.  
**

**Disclaimer; Definitely, guys, definitely. Divergent? ALL MINE. -_-  
**

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Washing blood off of your hands is something only amateurs do. Literally or figuratively. By the time you've reached my level of expertise, there's no need for direct contact. All that's needed is one carefully aimed dart, or arrow, or a poison slipped into a drink, and it's done.

Of course, it wasn't that easy with Hugh Everdeen. I refuse to refer to him as my father. It's not as if he ever treated me as something worth keeping. Just another possession in his stupid collection.

It started off small. A bruise here or there, the occasional cut or scrape along my back or torso. But by the time I was twelve, it had escalated to such a point that there was nothing else to be done. He had to go.

And it's not as if I did this in a fit of childish pique. He had been abusing me since I was five. Seven years, I had put up with this torture. Tried to protect my sister from it, too, and my mother. But there's not much a skinny twelve-year-old could do.

Except commit murder, of course. I was a foolish, naïve child, and my only experience of violence had been from overly dramatic novellas. So, typically, when the kitchen knife slit across his neck, I expected a bit more.

Screaming, maybe, or at least a touch of histrionics, but no. Just a gurgling breath, and then he was gone. Slightly saddening. Then I ran. Ran away from home, though I memorized the address to send money home to my remaining family.

Got hired as an assassin, though I'm not sure how. Something about my eyes, they said. And how there seemed to be this dark, determined aura spiraling around me. I'm now known as the Black Robin.

A modern-day Robin Hood, if you will pardon the oh-so-overused cliché. Stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. But Robin dearest wasn't an assassin, as most accounts go.

It's mostly men I target. They're easier to kill than women. Less drama, and much more bravado. It's almost entertaining. And I can easily exact my revenge on the gender that cost me my bitter childhood. But it was never quite enough.

Then I caught wind of what they were calling the Divergent Project. Some girl at my school and her loser friend, the hobo orphan girl. Avelyn or something. Who cares? The ginger with the ratty clothes.

Something about how you could leave this civilization to join a new, unknown one, leaving everything and everyone behind. It lit a flame in me, a spark that I'd been missing for a while now.

But apparently, you could only get an application form by invitation or a special process involving email (which I don't have, makes me too easy to track down), or a street address (see above). So that's obviously out of the question.

So here I am, on stakeout once again, observing the target. Middle-aged guy, doesn't look like too much of a threat. I assess him quickly, giving him a once-over. No weapons on him. Just his cell phone. A BlackBerry.

I snort in disgust under my breath. BlackBerry. Even I know that an iPhone's the better option. I settle into my alleyway hiding spot to wait for the opportune moment.

The air has a chilly bite to it, and I look up, careful not to disturb any stray garbage cans. The sky is cloudy, flat, and deep grey. "Crap," I murmur quietly. It's going to snow on me, and all I'm wearing are some tattered black jeans and a torn leather jacket.

I tense my body, trying not to shiver. Cold is a sign of weakness, and I'm eradicating any trace of that in myself. Not in my lifetime will I hear that the Black Robin is just a scared child.

I want to spit in disgust, but that would give me away. Damn silent winter air.

The old geezer continues to talk into his (snort) BlackBerry, and I smirk quietly. This is too easy. Then I realize that I've made an amateur mistake. I forgot to tap the line. He could be talking to anyone on there. This whole thing could be a...

"Trap," I breathe, my onyx eyes widening. Two black shadows surge from the edges of the street at my voice. "You got that right, girly," one of them grins, flicking open a switchblade.

The other one with the beard hacks out a blob of greyish phlegm onto the sidewalk. "Well, well, well," he smirks. "We found a little chicky." I blanch inwardly, but don't let it show. I recognize these men.

They're from the Chicago Hawks, a notorious gang that even I don't necessarily want to mess with. I know from their studded black leather jackets. "Hey, Dagger," says the bearded one. "Should we finish her off?"

Better and better. They know who I am. Who doesn't? I'm a little bit infamous. I can see the headlines now; "Black Robin's identity finally revealed!" I do the only thing I can; I turn and run.

Running isn't too much of an issue. Failing a novice assignment is. So I sprint and sprint until I'm nearing my school, and then I slow, my breath coming in puffs of mist in the icy air.

Walking now, I take purposeless steps towards nowhere, just kind of wandering. A frigid wind picks up, and I shiver, giving in to the cold. Strands of my dyed blue and black hair whip into my mouth, and I spit, irritably.

I'm just finding my stride when something hits me smack in the face. No, not a realization or a revelation, for all of you sarcastic, irony-loving freaks out there. Literally smacks, idiots. It was a piece of paper.

Just what I need, more things to screw up my already shitty day. Thanks, world. Glad to know there's someone out there looking out for me. Trying to condemn me, more like. Goddammit.

I'm about to take out my anger on the useless piece of trash when the word "Divergent" makes me pause and take a closer look. "Avery Brighton" is written in a messy scrawl in pencil across the top of the page, but obviously the hobo lost it. Mine now. Pencils erase easily.

"Divergent Project" stands out in large, neat black type, centered in the middle of the sheet. I smile coldly and pocket the missive, carefully slipping it into my pocket, being cautious not to crease it.

Who knew that a piece of paper could be so useful?

* * *

**I hope I portrayed her character accurately; please tell me if there are any concerns! Next up will probably be one of my characters, simply because we need a boy and a non-Dauntless and I'm going in order of who submitted when.**

**Also, I would like to say that I MAY be closing applications by the time I have the next chapter posted. Which, knowing me, probably isn't going to be for at least a week. So I gave you warning.  
**

**AND NOW THAT I AM DONE POSTING, I AM FREE TO PLAY MY POKEMON GAME WHICH I GOT TODAY! See, Silver, I kept my promise :D (not Pokemon Silver, author Silver -_-)  
**

**Review!  
**


	6. Cole

**So, hey, everybody! Apparently today counts as yesterday in my books, or something like that -_- Time management is an issue with me. Here's your update! I decided that, instead of inserting another one of my characters, I would put in one of the submitted OCs instead. Because we needed another guy who wasn't Dauntless. **

**This is Cole Sanders by SilverEyeShinobi!  
**

**Disclaimer; Dude, I can't even say that I own the OCs -_-  
**

* * *

... I can't keep doing this. Can't keep deceiving myself. Can't keep blocking out reality, or pretending that everything is fine. Because really? It's not. Far from it.

The rain is pattering softly in the streets, shimmering droplets winking in the back alley lights. Cold, wet globules splatter messily into seeping cracks in the dirty concrete beneath me, and I watch as a lone drop slips its way over the end of my ragged umbrella.

Usually, the steady rhythm of a storm would calm me, the trickle of water soothing and refreshing to my ears. But it's been a particularly rough day, even in my situation. My growling stomach can testify for that much.

We live in a tight-knit community, out here on the streets. Downtown Chicago isn't exactly a welcoming place for a lone person seeking solace. So we've done our best with what we have, sharing what we get equally between everyone, helping each other along.

I can't deny that it's tough. The first night that I wasn't in my house, I was lost. If not for these people I now call my family, I doubt that I would've made it by myself. So now I'm giving back in any way that I can, though it never feels like enough.

Recently, I've been thinking about leaving. Trying to get somewhere in the world. But, being a high school dropout, it'd be difficult. So I've dismissed the notion as foolish.

"Cole?" A soft voice makes me look up from where I'm standing with my umbrella in the downpour. "Mmm?" "Down here," comes a light giggle, and I quickly correct my mistake. "Hi, Joy."

Joy Kingsly is an angel. All beaming smiles and big, laughing brown eyes. "Cole!" she laughs, and tackles me around the waist, burying her face in my worn blue raincoat.

"How are you?" I ask her, smiling slightly in spite of myself. Joy is Lizbeth's younger sister, Lizbeth being a girl who comes and helps out here once in a while. Dropping off food and whatnot, even though we all know she can't afford it.

"Good!" Joy chirps back happily, her brown bangs plastered to her glowing face by the rain. "Can I help you do food for everyone again, Cole?" "Cook?" I ask her, knowing she means helping out in our impromptu kitchen.

"Yeah! Pleeeaasseee, Cole? Carol let me help last time!" I sigh. "How about you let me talk to your sister first, and then we'll see, okay?" Joy's face falls, but then brightens immediately. "Okay!" she says, and runs off to play with Devin, another one of the younger girls here.

"Lizbeth," I finally acknowledge, looking up at the figure standing in the shadows. "Cole," she replies, the barest hint of a smirk in her voice. "How's it going?"

Lizbeth steps out of the dusky sidelines of the alley, holding a yellow umbrella and pushing blue-black hair out of her face. Her piercing blue eyes analyze me, running up and down me before she sighs heavily and pulls something out of her pocket.

"I found this online. One of those ad thingies that pop up when you're trying to do something important. Thought you might be interested." That's Lizbeth for you. Blunt and to the point, with no flowery elaboration.

She extends one arm, being careful not to let the rain soak through the delicate-looking piece of paper. "It looked like something you might want," she says nonchalantly, shrugging slender shoulders.

I look at what the sheet says, or what I can see of it. Lizbeth's gloved thumb is covering some of the letters. The bold type at the top says "D ... ergent." Detergent?

"Liz," I say. "If this is a soap discount, it's okay. We bought some Sunlight about a week ago, and we still have some of the other stuff." Lizbeth's face twists into a scowl, her eyes flashing dangerously. "It's not a shopping list, moron," she growls.

A single raindrop splatters onto the page, turning it translucent, and she shoves it into my hand, crumpling the pristine white. "Just take it, okay?" she says irritably, readjusting her grip on her umbrella.

"If you don't want it, throw it out. See if I care. But I think you'll want it," she adds cryptically, smirking. I blink at the sheet in confusion. "Wait... Lizbeth, what IS this?"

In response, she turns, shoving the non-umbrella hand into a pocket. "Well, I've got to go find Joy now. Have fun!" And with that, she's gone, the yellow umbrella bobbing in her wake like the sun in the midst of a thunderstorm.

Nonplussed, I stare after Lizbeth's retreating figure for a full thirty seconds. Then I trudge back to where everyone is waiting in the line for food (women and children first) and sit down heavily on a bench.

Shaking the water off of my umbrella and myself, I extract the advertisement and flatten it on the table top, smoothing out the creases. When I manage to decipher the first word of blurred black ink, I realize that this is certainly not a shopping list for cleaning agents.

_Divergent Project._

Amid Joy's yells to line up for lunch and the tantalizing smell of hot split pea soup, I begin to read the page. When I finish the letter, all of the old jigsaw pieces in my mind seem to have finally come together. However, there are so many new questions, it hardly matters.

It seems that the rain has helped to confuse me even further, rather than helped to calm me down.

* * *

**OC APPLICATIONS ARE NOW CLOSED FOR THE TIME BEING. I have so many people already waiting for me to write for them...**

**A shoutout to anyone who has insofar reviewed, favourited, or followed this story! You guys are amazing!  
**

**Next up will be Savannah Miller, by The Lady Cloudy. Keep looking back for my next erratic update! (I love all of you guys so much XD)  
**


	7. Important notice

**Guys, this is really important.** And I'm actually dead serious. This isn't like, "Oh my Amity. I lost my book!" serious. This is why I haven't been posting lately.

Remember my camp that I go to every summer? The one that makes me really happy and then I come back all excited and motivated to write and cheerful?

It's shutting down.

Yeah.

Please, everyone, whether you're new to my stories and work, or whether you're a dedicated follower or favouritee, I'm asking for your help now. Well, no. Scratch that, I'm _begging_ for your help. This camp means a lot to me, and to a lot of other people that I know. I can't imagine my world without it, so I'll make this really simple.

We have a Facebook page. _**Save Camp Artaban. **_If you guys could go on Facebook, search us up, and click _like, _that would be more than I could ask for. If we can garner support, maybe it will show the people who cut our funding that this isn't just a summer camp, it's a second home. If you guys, any of you, want to find out more, follow our Facebook updates or even message me. I'd be more than happy to fill you in.

And if anyone out there has any money to spare, that would be the best thing ever to happen to me.

This is EmergentWriter, signing off. I don't know when I'll be on next, but thank you all for sticking with me

And diehard followers? I keep my word. I don't abandon stories. I just won't be on very often, if at all, until this is resolved.

Please, guys. And girls. And anyone else out there. _**Help.**_


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